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Esmerelda's sharp rapping on the truck window jolted Carver awake. Blinking against the sunlight streaming through the glass, he saw her standing outside, her appearance strikingly different in the daylight. Gone was the dominatrix persona, replaced now by a more business-like demeanor.

"I can't have my patrons sleeping in their trucks out front, Carver," Esmerelda stated, her tone a mix of annoyance and concern.

Carver, still disoriented from sleep, responded, “Well, I own the fucking building, give me a room.”

Esmerelda paused, considering his request, before nodding in agreement. “Okay, fine,” she conceded. She led him inside the building, guiding him to her personal apartment. The space was unlike the rest of Esmerelda’s establishment; it was more reflective of her day-to-day life, less about her professional role.

She pointed to the couch. “You can sleep there,” she said, her voice softer now, a hint of empathy creeping through.

Exhausted, Carver collapsed onto the couch, his bod